


A Sadist's Ambivalence

by Saccharine_Ghosts



Series: Eleutherophobia [2]
Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: (but not really.), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Blake Langermann - Comic Relief™, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotions, Family Issues, Fluff, Homophobia, Humour, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Lisa Park - The Only Person with a Goddamn Brain™, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Mental Institutions, Miles Upshur - Certified Jackass™, Panic Attacks, Post-Canon, Post-Hospitalization, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Smut, Suicide, Therapy, Unhealthy Relationships, Waylon Park - Professional Soft Man™, a fuck ton of porn and crying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-09 16:09:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12279942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saccharine_Ghosts/pseuds/Saccharine_Ghosts
Summary: “Enough about me though,” his smile got warmer and warmer, “What’s new with you? What are your plans for the holidays?”The mood dropped a few degrees, Waylon’s shoulders slumping and his face contorting to something in the way of disgust and annoyance.“The in-laws, huh?”“Not just the in-laws,” the blond took off his glasses to scrub his worried eyes, “It’s my parents, too. We’re going to Lisa’s sister’s place for dinner, and the whole Park-Garrett gang is invited.”“You’ve trained for this, young Padawan,” Blake pat him on the shoulder, “It won’t be so bad.”“Yes, of course, I’m so prepared to face a bunch of people who still think that Lisa and I aretogether.”Blake stayed silent for a few seconds.“Alright, yeah, that sounds pretty fucked.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got a good response from friends and I've gotten a lot of nice feedback, as well as some harrowing inspiration, so your boy is back at it again! This is also the result of a caffeine fuelled fever dream, which I think is how my best work comes about, so fuck it. Enjoy this retelling of my thoughts whilst in a manic state.
> 
> This is the main body of work so I would say you don't need to read the first part of this series, but it'd be pretty difficult to get through this not having any backstory, so probably check that shit out first.
> 
> Just like the first to this series, please keep in mind that there is some potentially triggering material. Also, if you're an Outlast fan, why would this concern you? I have no clue. Just keep these things in mind, make smart choices, don't do drugs. 
> 
> Thanks,  
> Ted.

“Merry Christmas!” Waylon pulled out a thick, hardcover novel from his messenger bag, and thrust it into the other man’s face. “It’s the second book of that series.” 

He set it on Blake’s lap, giving the man a better look. The cover was very familiar, gold accents with a navy blue background, but this time instead of an ice dragon it had a fire dragon on the front, with textured blood orange scales and a shimmer to its head. Its tail wrapped around the entire book, settling above the title along the spine. Blake began to absentmindedly run his fingers along the brazen figure-

“Do you like it?” 

The younger man’s head shot up, “Of course! Of course, Waylon, I love it. Thank you so much.” He reached behind him, pulling out his own wrapped up gift and placing it on the couch between them.

Waylon stared at it with an unreadable look. 

“You know, Waylon,” said Blake, “For somebody who seems so excited for Christmas, you’d think you would have received a gift at least one time.” 

“I have! I just… wasn’t expecting it.” He tore back the wrapping paper and pulled the item out. It was soft, and dark red with a vomit green fabric around the sides. Waylon couldn’t quite tell what it was until he set the scraps of paper aside, and let the folded sweater lay across his lap. “This is…”

“Ugly.”

“Thoughtful?” he corrected, not sounding too confident. The scratchy material was all sorts of off-putting shades, and on the front there was an obscene photo of gingerbread men in all different states of undress. Waylon had never seen anything like it, but it was sure to win any ugly sweater party.

Blake laughed, “You can give it to me straight, it’s meant to be ugly.” 

Waylon held it up to his chest to model it off to the other man, “Where’d you get it?” 

“That thrift store on 8th. Darnielle helped me pick it out.” 

“What?” he let it fall back to his thighs, “That’s awesome that you got to leave, Blake.” 

“Enough about me though,” his smile got warmer and warmer, “What’s new with you? What are your plans for the holidays?” 

The mood dropped a few degrees, Waylon’s shoulders slumping and his face contorting to something in the way of disgust and annoyance.

“The in-laws, huh?” 

“Not just the in-laws,” the blond took off his glasses to scrub his worried eyes, “It’s my parents, too. We’re going to Lisa’s sister’s place for dinner, and the whole Park-Garrett gang is invited.” 

“You’ve trained for this, young Padawan,” Blake pat him on the shoulder, “It won’t be so bad.” 

“Yes, of course, I’m so prepared to face a bunch of people who still think that Lisa and I are _together.”_

Blake stayed silent for a few seconds. 

“Alright, yeah, that sounds pretty fucked.” 

“You think?” Waylon groaned loudly, “My mom knows about Miles but… I don’t think she knows about Lisa and I yet. She thinks we worked it out and this is all just some-“ he waved his arms about – “Game that I played for attention, or because I was committed. We’re gonna have to tell them my ring is getting cleaned or something.” 

“That’s rough, but you know, at least you’ll get to see everybody together.” Blake gave him another warm smile and pulled him in for a hug, “You’ve been through worse.” 

Waylon returned the embrace enthusiastically, breathing deep as their chests were sealed together and his face was pressed into Blake’s hair. 

“Wish you could come home for the holidays,” he kept a hand on the larger man’s shoulder as he pulled away, “Having you there would make all this much easier.” 

“Me too, but I have some duties to attend to,” he gripped his book tight to his chest as some orderlies moved in to escort them away, “Jaime and I are on mashed potato duty.” 

“Wow, a real honour,” Waylon chuckled, “Have fun! Think of me while you wash potatoes!” 

“What else is there to think about?” 

The entire ride home Waylon had a smile on his face. It had been a while since he had seen Blake last, and every day away was tough. Living with Lisa in their old home was nice, and he was so glad to finally be at peace, but he felt a bit more secluded. Sure, he walked to the bodega for snacks and saw the cashiers, or the mailman, or the Scouts selling cookies outside the grocery store, but the only friend he had was Lisa, and it sure was a change from all his friends inside the ward. 

But freedom sure was sweet. He could watch all the movies he wanted, catch up on his favourite shows, and best of all; sleep, eat, and work whenever he wanted. Lisa directed him a bit, making sure he did all these things at a healthy, respectable hour and brushed his teeth on top of it all, but she didn’t hound him. He never felt trapped in his own home. 

When he unlocked the front door to the house, he was immediately hit in the face with the smell of burning, and a loud, high-pitched wail. It stung his lungs a bit and caused him to panic, rushing further into the hallway, until he found a rather dishevelled Lisa in the kitchen, standing on a dining room chair and oven-mitt clad hands fanning wildly at the smoke detector. When it stopped screaming, she turned around, and that’s when Waylon noticed the charred remains of their roasted vegetable tray sizzling on the stove behind her.

“Lisa, you were supposed to take those out hours ago.” 

“I may or may not have fallen asleep,” she blew at a stray coiled lock that had fallen in her eyes and stepped off the chair. “You know I can’t handle the oven.”

“All I said was take it out in an hour!” he teased, but it was all in good spirit. He made his way over to the stove and picked up a piece of cauliflower, tossing it into his mouth. It was well seasoned, as he had left it, but he couldn’t get over the texture or ashy taste that coated his mouth as he chewed.

“Will she make it?” 

“No,” he grimaced, “I think she needs to be put out of her misery.” 

Lisa moaned loudly, slumping against the island counter. “At least you still have the cheesecake in the fridge.” 

Waylon turned on his heels and began pulling out the creamy dessert. “As long as you didn’t get your hands on it-“ that earned him a punch in the shoulder, and he yelped but laughed, because he knew he deserved it. He had always been the cook of the house, and leaving Lisa with even a simple task of turning the element off after she boiled water was sure to end in disaster, which he should have known better. Sure, she could take down any criminal in the courtroom with as little evidence as humanely possible, but _god forbid_ you ask her to microwave you a Hot Pocket. 

“What’s that?” she pointed to the obnoxiously coloured fabric peaking out of his messenger bag. 

“Oh,” he stood, carrying the cheesecake with him, “A present from Blake.” He set the cake on the counter and pulled it out completely, throwing it over his shoulders and making a grand gesture to show off the copulating pastries on the front, “Thoughts?”

“… No thanks. I’d rather not see that thing ever again. Tell Blake I’m not pleased with him.”

“What, you don’t want one too?” 

She turned to fix Waylon a steely stare. 

“I was planning on giving you a matching one for Christmas.” 

“Shut up!” she gave him a playful shove and turned the fan on above the oven. 

“Really, I already asked him to pick one up for me.” 

“I’m not listening-“ she started to walk away, “Time to get dressed and ready to go.” 

“I was thinking we could wear them to dinner together, too-” 

“Waylon!” she scolded, but laughed as he followed her up the stairs, “Don’t you even think about it!” 

“I’m kidding,” he smirked, “What should I really wear? I have no clue.” 

Sorting through his closet, Lisa eventually came out with a pair of black jeans and a woollen navy cardigan instead of his X-rated knitted sweater from Blake, an outfit he had worn multiple times before. He thought it looked kind of silly, made him look more like a professor than a nerd, but she compromised with ‘nerdy professor’ every time. Especially when he slipped on a pair of Chuck’s with one too many wears in the soul. 

She too wore a pair of dark jeans, and a matching navy sweater. If it were any other time, he would comment about how nice she looked and maybe feel her up. That’s what husbands were supposed to do, they had to admire their wives and take advantage of being married. Today, he told her she looked absolutely lovely, and she returned the statement with a warm smile and a “You too, Way.” It was much nicer than the way things usually played out. 

By the time they drove to Lisa’s sister’s house, the structure was alive with sound. Christmas jingles rang through the air, there was boisterous laughing from the kitchen, and as Waylon entered two of the family’s dogs ran out in front of them, almost knocking him over. Already, he could feel himself getting overwhelmed, but the feeling of his arm linked in Lisa’s and the smell of baking food was distraction enough. 

“Lisa! Waylon!” called a gravelly voice, and suddenly both were being engulfed in a muscular chest. 

“Hi, Daddy,” Lisa kissed his cheek as they were released, “How’re you doing?” 

“Can’t complain, the families all here!” her father greeted them with a warm grin behind his greying beard. Waylon always loved Lisa’s parents, and these past few years had been tough on them. His hugs just weren’t the rib-crushing squeezes they used to be. “I should be askin’ ‘bout you two though,” he clasped Waylon’s shoulder, “Great to see you ‘gain, son, how you holdin’ up?” 

“Not too bad, Ben. Nice to be home.” The blond forced a soft smile, which seemed to be enough for the man because he took the cheesecake and ushered them into the spacious kitchen. 

Immediately they were bombarded with more attention from family. Waylon’s parents hadn’t showed up yet, neither had his brother, but he was all very familiar with Lisa’s warm, loving relatives. They greeted him with hugs, kisses on the cheek, and concerned looks. All he could do was put on a calm front, and pretend like everything was okay. It was, in his mind, but they had no idea what had changed since the last time they saw him. 

“Uncle Waylon!” three tiny figures crashed into him from behind, and if there hadn’t been a table to his left, he was sure he would have toppled right over onto the floor. From the tone of voice, he knew right away that it was Lisa’s niece from her sister's side, and nephews from her brother's. 

“Hey guys!” he scooped up Darius Junior, the smallest, “How’ve you been?” 

“Great!” answered Luka, “But we missed you. Dad said you were in the hospital. Were you sick?” 

Darius’ head suddenly shot out from the crowd, looking apologetic, but Waylon quickly cleared things up. 

“Yeah, I was, but I’m all better now.” 

“That’s good,” Michelle gripped his sleeve, “Are we taller? I think we’re taller.” 

“Of course,” he pet her thick, untameable hair, “You guys are gonna be taller than me soon!” 

“That’s not saying much,” Luka crossed his arms, “You’re not very tall.” 

Before Waylon could object, both Luka and Michelle were gripping his sleeves and pulling him away from the crowd. Apparently Christmas had been good for them this year. Michelle’s grandma had given her a new gaming laptop, and Luka got a brand new tablet from Santa. They were eager to show Uncle Waylon their new gadgets, and get his input on the matter. He worked with technology, after all, that was his forte, and so they trusted his judgement the best. 

“I want to jail break my IPad,” Luka informed him, “Mom says no because Darius sometimes plays on it and she doesn’t want him to do things to it that he’s not supposed to.” 

“I think Mom is right.” 

Luka gave a tired sigh, “She always is.” 

They were so mature for their age, Waylon couldn’t help but chuckle lowly at the tired gesture. Lisa and him had talked about kids in the past, she always had a natural affinity for them, but they never got around to it. When you’re basically running your own law firm, your husband doesn’t work from home, and your parents live over two hours away, kids aren’t even considerable. Still, that was a bit of a relief for Waylon. No kids got in the middle of their current predicament, and he didn’t have to worry about whether he was raising them right or not. Sure, he was fine with other people’s kids, but fun uncle translates to incompetent father most of the time. 

“Why are you not wearing your wedding ring?” Michelle asked, pointing to his left hand as he ran an anti-virus software through her computer. “Do you and Auntie Lisa not love each other anymore?” 

“No, of course we do, Shelly!” he held Darius in one arm close to his chest and looked at his barren finger, “Just getting it cleaned, that’s all.” 

“Oh,” she went quiet, and Luka returned to the room brandishing his brand new tablet and Lego set, rushing to show his uncle that had been gone for so long. 

Eventually the doorbell rang. Everybody in the adjacent room seemed preoccupied, so Waylon excused himself to answer it. Stepping around countless shoes and abandoned purses in the foyer, eventually he opened the door, and was greeted by his family. 

“Way!” his brother hopped over the threshold right away, bringing him into a tight one-armed hug as to not drop his wine, “Nice to see you, buddy.” 

“It’s been too long,” Waylon grinned back, “How come you’re never in Boulder anymore?” 

“You know how it is. Doctorate’s kicking my a-“ his mother cleared her throat. 

“Waylon,” she greeted coldly, “Nice to see you again.” 

“You too mom,” despite the cold greeting, she hugged him, but not quite as enthusiastically as usual. When she finally moved away, he greeted his father as well, who gave him nothing but a curt nod. 

Oh boy, just fantastic. 

Waylon always loved his father. The man was old-fashioned and blunt, but he always made sure they had a roof over their heads and enough food to eat. He pushed him and his brother to get good grades, go to college, marry fast and start their lives. That’s how he did it, that’s how they should do it, too. He was thankful for the support, but his dad was never very kind to them. His affections were saved for more quiet moments on holidays, and even then they were far and few between. Both his dad and mother were short, but right now he couldn’t help but wonder when his father had gotten so small, or when the bags under his eyes had taken permanent residence, or when his hair had gotten so grey. 

“We brought stuffing and cranberry sauce,” his mother held up a few Tupperware tubs, “I hope that’s enough.” 

“Yeah, they made lots of food,” he smiled widely as he forced himself to take the tubs from her, “I’ll go get these warmed up. Come in, you must be freezing.” 

As soon as he re-entered the kitchen, Lisa knew something was up. Whether it was his beaten posture or expression, he didn’t know, but she was immediately on him with a hand on his shoulder and the other cupping his face. 

“Hey, you good?” 

He nodded, “From my parents.” Waylon placed the containers on the counter and she took them from him and moved to the microwave. 

“Is Pete with them?” she received a nod, “Good. It won’t be so bad, Way, they’ll tone it down in front of the family.” 

Waylon agreed, but he didn’t know whether their definition of ‘toning it down’ would be quite enough. The kids already said something about him not having a ring, and his mother knew about him and Miles and probably told his father, considering the cold shoulder he was receiving from both of them. Maybe Peter didn’t know, but if he did, he was doing a good job of hiding it. 

Finally, it was dinnertime, and they all gathered around the feast in front of them. Lisa’s family was full of cooks, and why Lisa hadn’t been passed down the same talent, he had no clue, but if he was fed like this every day? He would take every opportunity to do so. Growing up, he taught himself to cook, and sometimes his grandmother would take him aside and they would both figure something out in her broken English and his broken Korean. It was fun, some of his fondest memories, but there was something about eating with Lisa’s family that was just something else entirely. 

Waylon sat between Lisa and her mother, Deloris. Across from him was his parents and Peter, and then the rest of the family surrounded them. The teens were in charge of the little tikes, with their own section on the far end of the room. It felt good to be sharing a meal again, despite his father’s cold exterior, but even he smiled softly to Lisa’s uncle as he passed around the gravy. 

“Turkey, Waylon?” asked Deloris, holding a plate of meat slices. 

“No thanks, mom, he’s vegetarian.” 

Lisa reached over Waylon’s lap, grabbing the plate of turkey while he continued piling his plate with what he thought he could eat whilst being completely oblivious to the sudden glances that information had earned him. During a reach for the salt, he saw both of his parents staring into him with an odd look. 

“Is there something on my face?” 

“How long have you been a vegan?” 

Waylon face-palmed lightly and shook his head, “I’m not a vegan, mom, I just don’t eat meat.” 

“I’ve heard that has a lot of health benefits-“ his brother added around a mouthful of carrots, pointing his knife to Waylon. 

“Thanks, Peter, but I really don’t think that’s such a good idea, Waylon, you’re already wasting away.” 

Ben laughed hardily and turned to Waylon’s mother, “Now, now, Dana, I think Waylon looks very fine for his age. I’d give anythin’ to get rid of this ol’ beer gut, eh son?” he winked at the younger man from across the table, and suddenly Waylon was very grateful to have the man there. 

“So would I,” Deloris added, and a cacophony of laughter sounded around the table, but his parents were still stoic as they began to pick at their meal. Waylon realized that this was only their third or so dinner with the Garret’s, and they still weren’t used to such lively food and conversation. Thankfully, they didn’t press him further, until later that night as they ate dessert around the television, some kids Christmas special on the screen. 

“Where is your ring?” asked his mother, much too loud for comfort. 

“It’s being cleaned.” 

“You weren’t wearing it when you left the-“ 

“It was in my bag,” he spat through gritted teeth, “I wasn’t allowed to have it.” 

“Hey Waylon,” Darius suddenly pointed to him, “Can I borrow you for a second?” 

Waylon hastily stood, eager to leave the uncomfortable situation. Darius was a very large man who took after his father, but also like Ben he had a very kind disposition, and Waylon would much rather spend time with this soft ex-high school quarterback than his five-foot bloodhound of a mother. 

“Everything alright?” he asked, motioning to a plate and a damp towel lying on the drying rack, “Think you could dry for me?” 

“Of course,” he picked them up and began the mindless job, “Just a bit… I don’t know. My parents are really worried about me.” 

“We’re all worried,” explained the man, soaping up a few more plates, “That doesn’t seem like worry to me, that seems like… well, I have no clue. Has it been like this since the hospital?” 

“Pretty much…” Waylon trailed off, trying to focus more on the task at hand than the sound of his mother’s whiney complaining from the other room. 

“Hey man, if you don’t want to talk about it, it’s cool.” 

“Really it’s fine, Darius,” Waylon sighed, “My family’s just weird about this kind of stuff. They’re not good with...” 

“Emotions?” Darius offered. 

“Affection,” Waylon shot back dryly. 

The tall man exhaled softly as he paused his washing, obviously deep in thought. That always worried Waylon, even from a man he trusted like his brother-in-law. 

“Are you… are you and Lisa doin’ okay?” 

His face must have changed somewhat, because Darius quickly changed the subject. 

“Don’t worry about it, none of my business.” 

“We are, it’s just… complicated, I guess. We’re just working through some stuff.” 

“I got it, Waylon,” Darius dried his hands and gave him a light slap on the shoulder, “It must be hard after all that shit went down, but I trust you with her.” 

His last comment made Waylon a little queasy, but he easily fought it off. Comments like that were bound to show up at one point, and he was quite prepared. What he wasn’t prepared for was his parents staying at his house that night. Everybody else was staying at the Lisa’s sister’s, and they even offered for the Parks to stay as well, but with three new families and multiple grandparents, there was no room left. He knew that this was the perfect opportunity for his mother to back him into a corner and make him explain all that was going on, and he wasn’t quite ready for it. 

Instead of fretting, he gave everybody the presents him and Lisa had prepared, and opened the few that were for him. Watching the kids open their gifts with small noises of delight and awe was enough distraction that when it was finally time to head home after a few glasses of wine (sparkling juice for Waylon and the kids) and more slices of cake, the dread didn’t set in until they were halfway home, his parents and brother trailing slowly behind them as to not hydroplane in the sleet. 

“Shit,” he groaned, letting his head fall against the steering wheel at a red light, ignoring the painful way his glasses dug into his cheek. 

“Already?” from the answer alone, Waylon could tell she had drunk a bit too much. 

“No, I mean-“ he ran a hand through his shaggy hair, “We’re gonna get home and my mom is gonna be on my ass about everything.” 

Lisa frowned, “It’s like two in the morning and they’re in their sixties, I really don’t think they’ll be able to stay up much longer.” 

Waylon’s fingers clenched and relaxed with his pumping of the breaks, rumbling of the car masking the grinding of his teeth. “Just prolonging the inevitable.” 

“Hey,” said Lisa, suddenly sober, “Just say what they want to hear if you’re not ready.” 

“I don’t want to lie.” 

“You’re still holding out hope for Miles, you mean.” 

Waylon swore that in that moment his teeth clacked so hard one of his molars came loose. 

“Is that so bad?” 

“We talked about this, Way, he’s gone. That’s fine that you’re still hopeful, I wanna be too, but you have to know when enough is enough.” 

“I just can’t…” his free leg tapped incessantly, “I can’t help think that note was real, there was _no way_ somebody else wrote it. A-a-and that sighting of him outside-"

“As I’ve heard a hundred times over,” she shook her head, “If you say so, I believe you.” 

They were quiet the rest of the drive home. When they got out, his parents pulling up behind them, Lisa gripped his arm lightly. He was thankful for the confidence booster, and the heat was welcome as well. 

As they approached the door and began taking out their house keys, Waylon slipped on a patch of ice. Before Lisa could pull him back up, he was landing on the handle, and the door swung open. Both of them stood in awe, glancing around the dark house. 

“I could’ve sworn…” Waylon whispered, “Was it me or you that went out last?” 

“You, but I’m sure I saw you lock it. Must’ve forgotten,” Lisa turned on her heels, “Do you three need help bringing your stuff in?” 

They thanked her and turned back to their old hatchback, Waylon almost followed when he realized his hands were full of gifts and his and Lisa’s overcoats. 

“I’ll be right there, I’m just going to put our stuff inside.” 

He didn’t bother taking off his shoes, moving through the entranceway until he got to the lounge. He set their stuff down on the couch, but was suddenly snapped to attention by a noise in the kitchen. 

“Hey, Lisa, where-“ he stopped dead in his tracks. 

In the kitchen wasn’t Lisa’s sweater-clad figure, it was a man wearing an old forest green hoodie, baggie gym shorts, and black sneakers. He was on the tips of his toes, reaching up into a cupboard, causing the worn hoodie to ride up and expose his hips as well as the band of his boxers. Not only did Waylon immediately recognize the figure and hoodie, but the action seemed familiar, and had his brain reeling for words. 

The man must have heard him approach, because he looked behind and caught Waylon dead in the eye. There was a bag of crackers hanging from his teeth and his hair was a bit longer, but it was so unmistakably Miles. He dropped the bag to his hands and turned around completely. 

“How’d you manage to get this shit all the way up there without me, short stack?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things sort of pick up from here. It's tame now, but there will be more violence and sensitive content (similar to Mouthful of Cavities) so be mindful.

Waylon didn’t know how he got to him so fast. Maybe he scaled the counter or maybe he ran much faster than he first thought, but his arms were around Miles’ neck and sealing their lips together, and it was all so quick that even as the younger man made a startled noise and dropped the crackers to scatter across the ground, Waylon didn’t let up. Warm hands found his face and cupped them in a way that was so painstakingly familiar it had his head swimming with static, and as Miles’ tongue entered his mouth, Waylon was suddenly struck with the realization that maybe that one glass of wine was reacting badly to his medication, and this was all a hallucination. He tore away, standing an arms length from the other man. 

“Didn’t know you did parkour.”

Definitely Miles. 

“What the _fuck_ Miles!” he yelled but kept his distance, afraid to touch in case the figure would disappear, “I get _one_ letter? One letter, that’s it? Now you just show up in the middle of the night and start raiding my-“ 

“I really wish you'd started with raking me over the coals,” he pouted, “Kinda ruined the warm welcome-“ 

“Shut the fuck up.” Waylon gripped the collar of his hoodie tight and pulled him in again until they were flush, and Miles melted against him. All of the anger flooded out of Waylon into that kiss, but he knew it would come back eventually; months of pent up rage and anguish couldn’t dissipate with a single kiss. 

Their moment was cut short by the sound of a car door slamming shut outside. 

“Shit-“ Waylon’s eyes went wide and panicked, “You have to get out of here!” 

“I just got here!” Miles frowned, “Didn’t you miss me?” 

“My parents are here! You need to get out, go to my bedroom now!” 

“Already gettin’ to the point, I like it, the funny farm did you some good-“ 

Another door shut and the approaching voices got louder. 

“Do you ever listen, you jackass? Move!” Waylon gripped his arm tightly and tugged him in the direction of the stairs, the door to his bedroom just closing as the sound of the front door alerted them to the rest of his family’s presence. 

“Stay-“ he huffed, “Stay here.” 

“Wasn’t on a rush anyway, pumpkin-” 

The words were cut short by Waylon slipping out the door and rushing back down the winding staircase, meeting his family at the bottom. Lisa was showing them a guest room downstairs as she shot Waylon a concerned look at his frazzled state, but made no comment. 

“Or if you guys want, Peter can take this room, you two can take Way and I’s room, and we’ll take the couches.” 

Waylon’s brain began to sound the alarms, creeping panic overloading his brain at the prospect of them going upstairs to find his dead boyfriend sitting on his and Lisa’s bed. 

“We’ll be fine, thanks Lis,” Pete answered with a smile, “I’ll take the couch, it’s no worry. Hate to kick you out of your own bed.” 

Internally, Waylon breathed a sigh of relief, and when Lisa moved to give the family some privacy in the guestroom, the blond pulled her aside. 

“Miles is in our bedroom,” he whispered. 

“What?” she whispered back. _”What?”_ she repeated, in a considerably less whispery tone. 

“He just… I don’t…”

She inhaled deeply and shut her eyes, slapping her hands down on both of his taut shoulders. 

“Go upstairs right now, I’ll cover for you.” 

He could have cried tears of relief right then and there, eternally thankful to have such a patient best friend. As he rushed away, he heard Lisa’s voice echo down the hall. “Waylon’s got a bit of a migraine, so he’s gonna have an early night-“ 

Sure enough, Miles was still there. It wasn’t all an illusion. When Waylon reached the bedroom door and slipped back inside, the brunet was standing over his bedside table with a gentle look on his face. When he noticed Waylon back inside, he lifted a photo off the oak surface. 

“You kept these?” 

He realized it was a frame of multiple photo booth stills, him, Lisa, and Miles at an amusement park a few years back. Lisa and Waylon’s hair was a bit shorter, but Miles had really taken the brunt of those few years. Right now, as he stood before Waylon, he had considerably more tone, but his face, especially his eyes, looked so much older. Waylon wondered if people said the same about him. 

“Of course I did,” he muttered, “That was one of the best days of my life.” 

Miles crossed the room, cradling Waylon’s face in his hands and kissing the man once again. After months without him, touching him now was like finding an oasis in a desert. Miles was thirsty, Waylon was dehydrated, and nothing mattered at that point other than the presence of each other. Large hands gripped his thigh, hauling him onto Miles’ midsection. Reflexes that had been left to waste suddenly sprung about, causing Waylon to wrap his legs around Miles’ waist. He had been right, Miles had gained some muscle, but he felt as if he weighed nothing in his arms, like Miles was holding a feather and not a five-foot-five grown man. 

“When'd you get so skinny, baby?” Miles mumbled against his cheek, and suddenly everything boiled over. All the time spent apart, thinking Miles was gone and mourning over his gravestone rushed into his system. The moment the tears started flowing, Miles’ started too, and he fell back onto the mattress behind them, causing Waylon to straddle his lap. 

They held each other so tight that it almost hurt. Between full-body sobs and Miles’ vice grip around his chest, Waylon could barely breath, but he just continued to claw at the other man to get close as possible, like if he were to let go he would suddenly disappear again. 

_“Where were you…”_ he whispered between sobs, _“Why didn’t you come sooner?”_

Miles buried a hand in Waylon’s hair and kissed the side of his head, “I would have, believe me, _I would have come sooner-“_

 _“But you didn’t!”_ he snapped but buried his face in the man’s neck, “You let me grieve! You let all of us think you were dead-“ 

“Because I might as well have been!” 

That shut Waylon up, and suddenly he was pulling back to stare into Miles’ eyes. Soft honey brown irises were almost jet black in the dim lighting of their bedroom, but Waylon blamed it on the angle, dark eyelashes blocking his view. The thought was quickly demolished as Miles’ face softened. 

“Baby, you gotta believe me when I tell you that I wanted to be there with you so bad, but I just… I couldn’t.”

“Then tell me,” he pressed their foreheads together, “Explain why it took you this long.” 

Miles hesitated, wiping the droplets from Waylon’s cheeks with his thumbs. He took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the other man’s sandy blond tresses, obviously trying to hold it together.

“Do you remember… the Walrider?” 

The name was painfully familiar, though it took Waylon a minute to realise why. He had heard it many times, murmured in hushed tones from one Murkoff personnel to another, and in multiple patient files scattered around the facility. He knew the Morphogenic Engine was used in controlling this ‘Walrider’ but it was never quite explained to him. For all he knew, it was a form of therapy, or one of Wernicke’s pill-induced pipe dreams that had been kept alive, for whatever reason. 

_“You have the most important job of all,”_ Blaire once told him, _“Keeping that thing on a leash.”_

“Not… I don’t – Miles, what does that have to do with-“ 

Suddenly, the door swung open, causing Waylon to jump from Miles’ lap. Lisa stepped inside, shutting the door quietly before putting both her hands on her hips and glaring daggers into Miles’ soul. 

“You ever learn to knock?” 

“Explain.” 

“Jeez,” he ran a hand through his hair, “Tough crowd tonight-“ 

“Don’t change the subject,” she barked, “Explain yourself.” 

Surprisingly, Miles held her glare, looking just as stone cold. She tapped her finger impatiently on her hip, waiting for him to answer, but he looked like he was searching for the right one. 

“I’ve been on a bit of a sabbatical.” 

“You know where we’ve been?” she gestured between her and Waylon, “The psych ward, my parents’ house - at the goddamn cemetery visiting your fucking _grave_ because you let us all think you were dead.” 

“It was bit of a… forced vacation. It wasn’t safe for me to be around people-“ 

“But suddenly it is?” 

The look on her face was her lawyer face, saved only for the courtroom. It sent shivers down Waylon’s spine, and had him itching to comfort Miles on the duvet beside him. Regardless, he kept his hands to himself, unwilling to subject himself to Lisa’s heart-warming wrath.

“I’m better now, I’m in control.” 

“You were so _dangerous_ you couldn’t even spare a phone call, and now you’re coming to whisk Waylon away, is that it? How am I supposed to believe you?” her eyes narrowed, and Miles visibly tensed. 

“I can’t make you do anything, but you just have to trust me.” 

One of her well-manicured hands pinched the bridge of her nose and she inhaled sharply, obviously trying to compose herself. “Waylon, your judgement is clouded right now, and I say we talk this through before we make any decisions.” 

“Lisa-“ Waylon tried to interject, but was quickly cut off. 

“No,” she pointed at him sternly, “You listen to me, Waylon. Do you remember how difficult it was for you to even look at me when you got home? Now Miles, who’s been MIA for the better part of a year, suddenly shows up completely peachy? Do you see what the problem is?” 

“Lisa, I know why you’re worried, but I’m-“ 

“You didn’t see him when he first came home, so for once close your _fucking mouth,_ Upshur, before I close it for you.” 

His jaw immediately tightened, making a clacking noise as his teeth met. 

“What are our options here?” she began pacing, “I can’t just throw you on the street, but I can’t leave you alone with Way, I just-“ she raised her arms like she was holding back a scream. 

“Lisa,” Waylon stood slowly, placing a hand on her arm, “Maybe he can go stay in the office for tonight, okay? I can’t just... We can’t just make him sleep in the car.” 

She pulled her lip between her teeth, dark brown eyes boring deep into Miles like that was the only thing keeping him there. If he didn’t know better, he would have thought Lisa was about to throttle him, but she was just torn between what needed to be done and what was easiest. 

“Fine,” she gave an exasperated sigh, “Way’s parents are leaving tomorrow afternoon. Stay in the office until then and think _long_ and _hard_ about what you have to say for yourself.” 

From the look on his face alone, Waylon could tell the man was holding back a bit of snark about her choice was words, but at least he knew now was not the time. He chewed his lip and nodded, staying completely quiet as he stood from the woven duvet and made his way towards the door. Way followed, not about to let the man out of his sight, but Lisa stopped him at the door. 

“Don’t let your guard down…” she murmured forebodingly, and he nodded in response. His thoughts were a mess, a jumble of words that were telling him run, attack, hide all at the same time and he was thankful that even after all he had put her through, she had his back.

Miles knew where he was going. He had been in all areas of the house many times, so all Waylon had to do was follow him across the hall, past the bathroom, and into Lisa’s office with their spare couch. As the door swung open slowly, Miles held a hand out to Waylon, which he took in a hesitant grasp. The larger man pulled him in gently, tugging him tight to his chest as the door softly shut behind them. 

“God, did I ever fucking miss you…” he whispered into the man’s hair, “I didn’t know up from down for a while, but I never forgot that face.” 

Waylon’s pale fingers dug into his hoodie, burying his face in the toned chest of the man he had been without for so long. He smelt like spice and cigarettes, his normal musky odour, and maybe like he hadn’t showered for a few days, but it was so comforting that Waylon kept the shower comment to himself, much more interested in basking in the familiarity of it all. 

“Lisa didn’t believe me…” he mumbled, “I showed her the letter, but she thought I wrote it… Then somebody saw you outside of Denver and I just-“ he shut his eyes tight to stave off a fresh wave of tears, “God, are you real? Are you actually here?” 

“The name’s Miles, not God, but yes. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.” 

Two years ago, Waylon would have shoved him away, scolded him for ruining such a sweet moment. But now, the inappropriately timed jokes were music to his ears. Though Waylon’s own was deeper, Miles had a very nice voice. Husky and smooth, and as they pressed up against each other his entire chest rumbled with the sound, a grounding force for Waylon to grip onto. 

“Where have you been?” asked the blond, but Miles pulled away, making him scramble to pull the man back into his grip. He didn’t let go, but he backed up until his legs hit the edge of the couch, and he sat.

“C’mere,” he made grabby hands at the smaller man, and that’s when Waylon noticed it. His right index finger and left ring finger were both missing, small stubs of flesh and bone exposed, but healed over. Miles had such nice hands, the sight of such an obscenity was so jarring that it stopped Waylon from drinking in the other man’s affections like he had planned. 

“Just noticed, eh?” Miles pulled them in and rubbed at his outer thighs through his jeans, like he was hiding them. “I’m still not used to ‘em either. S’what I meant when I said the mountain cost me.”

Self-conscious was not a phrase Waylon would have ever thought he would be using for Miles Upshur, star of the photography club and track team, but here he was, shying away from Waylon Park, anxiety-ridden techie. His gaze was fixed worriedly on Waylon’s own, but still his hands stayed at his sides, mutilated digits hidden. 

“Hey,” Waylon moved to his lap and pulled them up to have another look, “Do they hurt?” 

Miles shook his head, “Not anymore. Hurt like a bitch at first, though.” 

The smaller man turned them over and kissed up his palms, over his thumbs, between the wedge of his fingers, and finally to the marred edges of flesh. He paid extra attention to them, watching Miles’ worried expression slowly unfurl to something softer. 

“It’s alright,” he moved them to his waist, “It’s okay, you don’t have to hide them from me.” 

Miles arched up, catching his mouth in a kiss and pulling him back down with it until Waylon was leant over him, hands still gripping tightly to his hips. It wasn’t as desperate as the first kiss, Miles was slow, languid; he was taking his time and making it sweet. Even as his thumbs hooked over the waistband of Waylon’s jeans, nothing heated between them. The truce of not going further whilst Waylon’s parents slept directly below them went unsaid. 

“Missed this…” Miles mumbled against his lips, “Making out like teens behind the bleachers.” His hands found Waylon’s biceps, tracing up and down his willowy arms. 

Goose flesh sprung up all across Waylon’s bare forearms and the back of his neck, though he couldn’t blame it on the chill in the air or the snow falling outside their window. The space around him was warm, Miles breathing hot air into his mouth and lungs, and lighting up every bit of exposed skin he touched with his body heat, but still his flesh reacted and he was shaken with a full body shutter that zapped him of his energy, making him collapse onto the man’s torso. 

“You never answered…” he muttered, burying his chilled hands under Miles’ clothed back. 

Slender fingers buried themselves in his overgrown mane of hair, scratching ever so lightly against his sensitive scalp. The absence of fingers was blatant, but his palms still warmed the smaller man’s neck and back like a heating pad. “Went back to Boston for a while,” he inattentively pet the back of Waylon’s hair as he spoke, “tried Atlanta, didn’t stay long. Last stop was Cali, even got to visit Berkeley-“ 

“You went to Berkeley?” Waylon’s head shot up, a lazy smile adorning his face. 

“Yeah baby, and you know what I found when I got there?” his signature smirk crept its way onto his face, “A bunch a’ nerds with their noses in books. Sound familiar?” 

Waylon huffed exasperatedly and let his head fall back onto his chest. 

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he kissed the crown of the blond’s hair, “But I really did go. You didn’t tell me you were a math-lete.”

Waylon rested his head on his arms and stared up into the younger man’s face. 

“I saw the trophies.” 

He groaned loudly, burying his face again to hide his growing embarrassment. 

“Ahaha no, there were a lot of ‘em! They were… they were impressive. You should ‘a told me.” 

For a few moments they sat in silence, what was left of Miles’ fingers carding through Waylon’s sandy blond mop. The steady rise and fall of the younger man’s chest and his heartbeat somewhere beneath Waylon were enough to convince him that he was still here, still alive and functioning, and suddenly the silence was filled with shallow breaths. 

“Baby, what’s wrong?” Miles gripped his face gently and turned it so their eyes met, “Why’re you crying, sweetheart?” 

“I-I just can’t-“ his breath hitched, “I just can’t believe y-you’re here, and you’re real, finally. Please don’t leave again, please, please, _please…”_ his soft pleas began to trail off with a steady stream of tears.

“I won’t, I promise,” he pressed reassuring kisses to the blond’s hairline, “Don’t worry, Way, I’m not leaving again. I couldn’t even if I had to,” his earlier sly smirk had transformed into a somber smile, “You look tired.” 

“It’s hard to sleep. This week especially with… with the family, and whatnot.” 

“Do any of ‘em know?” 

“My mom, maybe my dad,” he scrubbed at his eyes, “I don’t know if she really understands though.” 

“You should get some sleep. Lis said they’re going home tomorrow?” 

Waylon nodded slowly, but he looked distracted. 

“Hey,” Miles lifted his hoodie, “C’mere.” 

“I-I can’t-“ 

“We’ve done it before. You’re cold, don’t you try and lie to me, now.” 

Slowly, Waylon crept under the oversized fabric and nestled back into Miles’ warmth. The action felt childish, but when the smell and feel of being closer to the man finally settled in, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Large hands crept their way under his shirt and to the soft skin of his back, skimming along his sides, his defined ribs, and soothing him into something that was like sleep. The skin around Miles’ face was close-shaven, but still as he nuzzled around it and immersed himself in the embrace it scratched at his soft skin in return, but did not bother him. It only confirmed that he was right where he was supposed to be, after months of being lost. 

The days may have been short, but eventually a thin crescent of sunlight crept through the only window in the room, stirring Waylon from his light slumber. Miles’ hands were still buried under his shirt and his breathing was quiet and rhythmic, showing that he was still deep in sleep. It was strange for Waylon to wake before him, but he had looked so tired the night before in the kitchen, he must have been extremely sleep deprived. 

Despite the desperate urge to stay in bed, buried in Miles’ arms, he knew he had to get up to see his family off. They would be up within an hour or two, and if he stayed in too long they might come looking for him. Miles was a heavy sleeper, especially on days where jobs kept him up for nights in a row or he had been without a nap, but Waylon took extra precautions to make sure he didn’t wake the other man. 

It was in vain. As soon as he pulled himself from under the evergreen hoodie, a hand shot out and gripped his wrist hard enough to bruise and much too strong for a man who was still asleep. 

“It’s just me,” Waylon whispered, rubbing the brunet’s arm reassuringly. 

“What’re you doing up?” Miles’ words were slurred, his voice hoarse from disuse which caused Waylon’s stomach to tighten. He always looked delicious first thing in the morning, before he could fix his carefully styled hair or shave the darkening shadow around his jaw, but Waylon couldn’t take the time to savour the moment now. 

“It’s almost morning, I have to get up.” He leaned down and caught Miles’ lips in his own, “You want coffee?” 

“Want you to stay…” he whined, but still his voice was gruff and his eyes were shut. 

“No can do,” he chuckled, peppering kisses across the other man’s nose. “I can bring some up for you in a bit though, then we have the rest of the day, okay?” 

Miles gave a loose nod before curling in on himself again. He was much too big for the couch, but he had spent more than a few drunken nights in more perilous positions than this, so Waylon was sure he would be fine. As an extra precaution, Waylon moved to the supply closet on the other side of the room and pulled out a few throw blankets, draping them across the other man and kissing his temple one last time before he left the room. 

The house was dead quiet except for the sound of running water from the upstairs bathroom, signalling that Lisa had gotten up as well and was about to hop in the shower. Waylon snuck past, sock-clad feet quietly tip toeing down carpeted stairs. When he made it to the living room, he saw Peter still sound asleep, so he moved to the quiet of the kitchen.

Behind the island there was no mess of stale crackers, meaning Lisa must have cleaned up the mess Miles had made the night before. The fridge was slightly ajar, probably from his brother’s drunken late-night snacking, so he closed it slowly before he moved to the coffee maker. 

The sound of the machine quietly whirring to life was one of his favourites. From his mother’s at home, to Berkeley, to life before the hospital, the sound of the coffee maker was always the same, never changing. Same with the affects of the coffee, though he had never been picky about brand. As long as it was brimming with cream, sugar, and caffeine, Waylon would take it. 

“Mind if I take a cup?” 

The sound of his father’s voice startled him, making him whip around on his heels with wide eyes and a hand clutching his chest. 

“D-dad,” he sputtered, “Please don’t sneak up on me like that.” 

“Sorry, I should have known better,” he pulled a mug out from the cupboard and thrust it in Waylon’s direction. “Do you mind?” he repeated. 

“No, it’s fine…” fighting down a bout of anxiety, he took the mug and placed it beside his own, before he began searching for the sugar container that seemed to always be in a different place. 

“We didn’t get to talk much yesterday, you seemed like you were in quite the hurry to get to bed,” his fingers were crossed over the edge of the island counter, “Is everything alright?” 

Waylon’s face contorted into something confused. “Y-Yeah, of course. Dad, what are you trying to say?” 

He crossed his legs and leaned back on the island stool, “Did you and Lisa get in an argument on the ride home?” 

The quiet hissing of the coffee maker filled the air, and Waylon froze in his tracks. 

“You’re wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and I know things haven’t been good lately, but-“ 

“Really Dad,” Waylon raised his hands in submission, “It’s fine. We’re fine.” 

The older man didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press Waylon anymore. Relieved, he moved to pour two cups of coffee, and slid the steaming black cup to his father. 

“If things are fine, I take it you worked all that… business out. All the things you said after you left the hospital.” 

Waylon had to pause in his sip, swallowing down the nervous bile that rose in his throat and burned his tongue worse than any hot beverage ever did. 

“You’re going to have to be more specific.” 

“About your friend, the journalist. The one that passed away-“ 

“I said a lot of things about him,” his tired voice rose, “I said I was guilty he was gone, and that it was my fault. Was it that?”

The older man’s face blanched. 

“Or was it that I love him? I wanted to be with him? Which is it, Dad, you’re going to have to tell me-“ 

“Will you keep it down?” his father’s brow tensed, “Your mother is trying to _sleep_ and I will not have her wake up to this nonsense just so I can hear about it the rest of the day.” He sighed deeply over his coffee, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That hospital made you delusional…” 

Waylon’s mug fell to the floor, shattering into a million shards and splattering the ground in the sweet liquid. The noise was loud, reverberated off the walls and had his father staring shocked and wide-eyed from behind his thick-rimmed glasses. 

“I don’t see how this is the hospital’s fault if I loved him before Murkoff hired me.” 

His father’s face did not change. 

“He found me the job, you know. I don’t see how you could think that the treatment that saved my life did this to me, because we had been seeing each other for _years_ before any of this shit went down,” he spat, “Sorry you’d rather blame my more unfavourable traits on the hospital that kept me alive while you abandoned me, rather than think maybe, just _maybe,_ I’ve been queer my whole life.” 

The older man adjusted his glasses, hiding his moistening eyes, before grabbing his coffee and stepping off the stool. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he murmured. 

“I’m sorry you care more about where your son puts his dick than if he’s healthy.”

He turned away before his father could leave, pulling a cloth from one of the drawers and picking up the small shards of ceramic. His hands were shaking from the confrontation, trembling violently to the point where every press of a thumb or an index finger resulted in small cuts from the jagged edges of the mug. It stung, especially when the sugary coffee seeped its way inside, but nothing compared to the look of disgust on his father’s face as he spoke of his boyfriend. 

For the third time that morning, Waylon began crying. Not obnoxious happy crying like when he held onto Miles for dear life, it was quiet, sniffling sobs that he muffled in a sleeve and dripped silently down his face to mix with the brew on the linoleum tile. His fingers began bleeding more and more, but he ignored it in favour of cleaning. Way knew he had to compose himself before his mother woke up, hide the cuts and stains on his jeans or the way blood oozed from small lines in his fingers, or how his eyes were slowly becoming red-rimmed and swollen. That speech to his father had been involuntary, years of words spilling out before he could think, and now that his father wasn’t there the adrenaline had left his system and he was low, spacing out as white ceramic poked holes in his knees and the pads of his fingers. 

In his dissociative state, he didn’t hear the sound of soft footfalls enter the room, or feel the gentle hands that touched his shoulders and pulled him away as he frantically began cleaning his mess. Tears blinded him and his pulse pounding deafened him to the point where whoever was in front of him, speaking slowly and gently dabbing at the crimson fluids on his palms, blurred into a shapeless mass. Eventually, they dabbed at his eyes with a new cloth, and black cropped hair and glasses came into view. For a second, his heart leapt at the thought of his father here now after a change of heart, but when his pulse stopped thrumming and his vision cleared, he realized what a mistake that was. How cruel a trick for his brain to have played on him.

“Waylon,” Peter’s calm voice spoke, “You’re having a panic attack. Try and look at me.” 

Dark charcoal eyes met steel grey, but still his chest heaved and his lungs stung. 

“Can you hear me? Nod if you can here me.” 

Waylon gasped, nodded once, and exhaled shallowly. 

“That’s good, that’s good. You’re fine, Way, come back to me.” 

Peter let Waylon grip his shoulders, hold himself upright and stare into his watery face. Nobody ever believed him and Peter were full brothers, but now, in this light and when this close, he could see their similarities. Pale, clear skin, small button noses and monolids from his father’s side, on top of the strange blue-grey of their irises that they shared. He was here, Peter was holding him, and he wasn’t freaking out because Waylon was acting strange. 

“That’s it, Way, just breath. With me, okay? In-“ he sucked in a slow, deep breath, “And out.” 

The blond tried to do as he was told, following his little brother’s instructions. It took a few minutes, but eventually the spots left his vision, the bleeding stopped, and Peter’s concerned face came into view. 

“I heard what he said,” he shook his head, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Waylon.” 

“I-It’s not your fault-“ 

“No, it’s not, but he shouldn’t be saying things like that,” he shook his head, “This isn’t the sixties anymore, he should know better. They _both_ should know better.” 

From the angle they were at, Waylon could see that Peter was still in boxers and a light t-shirt. He probably heard the cup break and came rushing over in case of an emergency. 

A wave of embarrassment washed over Waylon, and he hid his face in his hands. 

“I can’t believe I actually said that…” 

A small chuckle escaped his brother as he pat Waylon on the back, “I can’t believe it either, you really stuck it to him. I bet he feels really stupid.” 

“So you’re not… mad?” 

“Why would I be mad? Because you and Miles were together?” 

Waylon nodded sheepishly. 

“No, I don’t understand, but I’m not upset. I _am_ a little confused why I didn’t realize sooner. My twenty-first birthday was…” 

The elder of the two knew exactly what he was talking about. The day Peter turned twenty-one was a night to remember, or rather, it wasn’t. Miles was a people person, so from the moment him and Peter met they had got along great, meaning Miles was always invited to tag along to events with Waylon. They night of his coming of drinking age Waylon, Miles, and a few close friends took Peter to a well known club outside of Denver, but the rest was a drunken blur filled with strange shots, beer pong, and a mickey of Fireball that put all Berkeley parties to shame. 

“Oh god no,” he covered his mouth, “We didn’t-“ 

“No, you didn’t, but Miles was pretty handsy, and you just… ignored it. Like it was just something that happened every day,” he sighed dreamily at the memory, “I mean, Miles made it very obvious that he was into dudes, but I never thought…” he chewed his cheek as he searched for the right words. 

“Sorry,” the blond shook his head, “I should have told you sooner.” 

“Really Way, it’s fine,” he stood and held a hand out to his brother, “Now, why don’t you go take a shower and I’ll clean this before the folks wake up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very lonely and gay, and I want Miles to hold me with his meaty stubs.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if you made it this far, thanks for your patience. Your threshold for shit must be way up, so thanks for putting up with it! I hope you enjoy, and please leave me any feedback, criticism, or comments, it really helps me stay motivated for the future. 
> 
> Thanks, kids.


End file.
